In The Year 1922
by Lanoire
Summary: The chapters concerning Marius, Cosette and the Friends of the ABC, only set during the American Prohibition. Yeah, I don't know.


In the year 1907, Mister Gillenormand took into his home a young boy, his daughter's son. His daughter had died just less than a year before, and Gillenormand had threatened disinheritance unless the boy was placed in his care. The boy's father was not a rich man and could not, for the sake of his son's future, refuse. The father had been arrested in his youth for agitating workers, and the grandfather refused to have 'his boy' (for he was the sort of man that is born to be a grandfather) grow up with such an influence. So, the boy grew to be slightly moody, very shy, and a bit more clever than his grandfather gave him credit for. Of course, the grandfather sang praises of his grandson's brilliance, but to have the boy search through old newspaper clippings and pamphlets and declare at breakfast one day full support of his father's views was the last thing believed the boy capable of. The grandfather flew into a rage and, branded a communist and a disgrace, the young man (Marius Pontmercy by name) found himself quite alone in the streets of New York City in the year 1922.

Shortly before the women of the United States of American won the vote, the Eighteenth Amendment passed, and alcohol was illegalized, to the outrage of most of the country. Speakeasies were not long in popping up throughout the country. One establishment was especially of note, mainly because no one had ever heard of it save its customers, and they were all engaged in businesses just as marginally illegal as the speakeasy itself. The little bar, located underneath a second rate Vaudeville theatre, was called the Corinth and was owned by a man named Grantaire who was always twice as drunk as any of his customers. He scoffed at any sort of belief or ideal save the bottle and adored the classical gods for their sheer humanity. His alcohol was supplied alternately by 'prescription' from a doctor and assistant who frequented the establishment, and by slightly more illegal methods. Namely, through the infamous crime ring and members of the black alcohol trade, the group known only as the Patron Minette. Little more can be said of them, because little more is known.

The most illustrious frequenter-- if not famous, certainly the most eye-catching-- was a young woman. She breathed a sense of a golden-haired Athena, will all the righteous justice as well. A French sculptor had once begged her to pose as his Marianne (so they said). She was an ex-suffragette, gathering up as many new causes as she could (so they said). She never drank, though in a speakeasy, and had ruined her health through hunger strikes (so they said). She'd never kissed a man or woman (so they said). Like a gentleman, she went by her surname, which was Enjolras (this they knew).

The Vaudevillians above the Corinth brought in a large percentage of the customers, and usually succeeded in getting them so drunk, they forgot how to come back. And it was one of the Vaudeville singers who led the previously mentioned Marius Pontmercy into the Corinth.

Upon leaving his grandfather's house, Marius, having no friends to turn to, began to wander. He had never truly been into the city before, and along with innate male pride that made him, like all men, incapable of asking for directions, he was far too shy to approach complete strangers in any case. He wandered until dark, when the light and music emanating from a theatre drew him towards it. After walking the whole day, even amid the smell and noise, he managed to fall asleep in the dimmer part of the theatre, near the back, his head resting on the small bag he had taken from his grandfather's.

He woke to find a young man sitting across from him, smoking and flicking the ashes into Marius's hair. There were still smudges of greasepaint on his cheeks and at his hairline, and Marius vaguely recognized him from his performance earlier in the evening. He had sung a very lewd song about a lady of his acquaintance, Marius recalled. Marius rubbed his eyes and tried to shake out his curls.

"Who are you?" he asked blearily. The young man laughed.

"For a moment when you were sleeping, I thought you were a young lady." Marius blushed. "I'm Courfeyrac."

"Marius Pontmercy," he said, trying to sound dignified even though his clothes were rumpled and there was ash in his hair.

"Do you often come to shows just to sleep?" Courfeyrac asked with a grin.

"No, I-- I haven't anywhere else to sleep."

"Come sleep at my place, then," Courfeyrac said. "Then come back tomorrow and don't fall asleep. See the show properly."

"I could never--" Marius said quickly, but Courfeyrac gave his cigarette a flick, and Marius coughed.

"Please, please. It's a pleasure, of course." And so, reluctantly, Marius agreed. Courfeyrac slung an arm around Marius's shoulders, as if they were already old friends. "And, now, let us get a drink. You're not so young, to have never gone drinking?"

"My grandfather didn't approve," Marius said uncertainly, though suddenly alcohol seemed very appealing. "Also, it's illegal."

Courfeyrac laughed.

Courfeyrac led Marius out of the theatre, down around into a small back alleyway that Marius imagined were rather like the sort you read about in newspapers, where young, black-haired men named Pontmercy were found dead and murdered with ashes in their hair. The alley was dark, but as they moved a little farther down, a silhouette of a burly-looking man became visible. Marius stiffened, but Courfeyrac waved jovially to the man.

"Now, just fancy seeing you here, Bahorel," Courfeyrac said too casually. "Won't you step aside for an old friend?"

"Who's that?" the man identified as Bahorel asked, jerking his head in Marius's direction. He gave Marius a look, and Marius hoped desperately that maybe he could get away with only having both his arms and legs broken, and Bahorel would not feel compelled to chew his head off.

"This is my dear, dear friend Marius Pontmercy, for whom you may hold me personally accountable." Courfeyrac slung his arm around Marius's shoulders again. "If he does anything naughty, you may hit me, promise."

"Naughty?" Marius squeaked as Bahorel stepped inside, revealing a door that looked like even Marius could have kicked it in. Courfeyrac opened it, and both gentlemen descended a narrow staircase.

"Of course. You don't have _quite_ the looks of an officer, but they're getting clever, those Untouchables."

"Right, of course," Marius said, bewildered. Courfeyrac clapped him on the back, then pushed open a door with more grandeur than the dingy little room on the other side seemed to merit. It was poorly lit and smelled too strongly of brandy. A scruffy man behind the counter was talking animatedly and drunkly with a bald man in front of it. Next to them, a scrawny, well-dressed young man wasn't drinking anything at all. A lanky boy with black hair was chatting to two other gentlemen; one was taking notes, the other was listening intently. In the back, a girl (the only one present who appeared to be of any repute at all or, in fact, at all sober) was hunched over a paper, gold curls spilling into her face.

"This is a speakeasy?" Marius asked, incredibly unimpressed. Courfeyrac grinned and nudged him over to the bar, sprawling halfway over the counter and shouting to the scruffy man behind, while Marius found himself pushed into a seat next to the well-dressed young man he had noticed before.

"I'm Marius," he said, bewildered.

"Joly," the young man said. Courfeyrac asked Marius something he didn't understand (he presumed it was the name of a drink, but he wasn't quite certain) so Marius just nodded and looked interested, a tactic he'd found very useful at his grandfather's house.

"Don't you drink?" Marius asked.

"Oh, no," Joly said quickly. His voice was a bit hoarse, and every so often he coughed into his handkerchief. "I only come here because Laigle enjoys it." He gestured to the bald man next to him, who was waving his glass from side to side in the air. "You never know what you're drinking, when it's illegal this way. It's a health hazard! You don't know what they're mixing in to make it taste real. You can go blind from some of the things they put in there, or paralyzed. You know, I had a sip of brandy the other day, and I do swear, my foot has been tingling all day…!"

Marius paled. "Is that true…?" he asked, turning to Courfeyrac, who, predictably, laughed.

"Perhaps. But if you listened to Joly, you'd spend your whole life curled up in bed breathing into a jar. Even he can't bear to follow his own advice, such a boring life he'd lead. Drink up, dear."

He thrust a glass into Marius's hand, and he sipped at it timidly. In his personal opinion, it tasted awful. He returned with Courfeyrac every night for several weeks.

One night, after Courfeyrac downed several glasses of whiskey, then was bet by the bald Laigle that he would be too frightened to flirt with Miss Enjolras (the blonde in the corner, Marius learned), Marius found himself sitting with one of the workers who frequented the speakeasy, the same tall, black haired boy he'd seen his first day. He introduced himself as Feuilly, and immediately began asking Marius's opinions on workers' rights.

"I-- are you-- what?" Marius said. Feuilly sighed, a bit impatiently.

"I work in a factory that makes silk," Feuilly explained at last. "I'm trying to organize a union, I've got an unofficial group, and we hold sit-ins, and try to gain negotiations. Bahorel helps-- well, he helps in his own way. He starts rallies and bashes heads together." A wry smile played across his pale lips. "His methods seem to get more important people to listen. I'll prove him wrong, someday."

"What do you think of this, then?" Marius asked, running a finger around the rim of his glass of brandy.

"Prohibition? I don't give a damn about drinking. I _do_ give a damn that the government thinks wasting their time and money on neighborhood winos is more pressing than ensuring the safety of the country's workers, no matter how much those temperance advocates kept whining." He lowered his voice at the last part, his eyes flicking over towards Enjolras, in her usual place in the corner. Marius got the feeling everyone was a bit afraid of her. Marius himself was absolutely petrified. He knew, by now, she was staunchly sober, and likely one of the temperance advocates, though, Feuilly confessed, he wasn't sure. Marius certainly wasn't going to be the one to ask.

Another day, as he and Courfeyrac approached the door, Bahorel was speaking to two gentlemen. Judging by his tone of voice, Marius feared he'd get to see the burly man rip off some limbs after all.

"But we've been in before!" the taller of the two, thin and bespectacled, was protesting. The smaller was only nodding vigorously in agreement. Courfeyrac watched for a moment, looking amused, then strode over.

"I'll speak for them as well, Bahorel," he said.

"And who will you speak for next?" Bahorel asked, irritated. "Izzy and Moe?"

"Do you doubt my solemn word for honor that they're both good gentlemen just looking for a bit to drink outside of church? You wound me, Bahorel," Courfeyrac said, grinning and ushering the taller of the two inside. Marius found himself hurrying down the stairs next to the smaller, who nearly bounded the whole way.

"I'm Jean Prouvaire," he said once they'd reached the bottom and had been seated. "This is Combeferre," he said, gesturing to the bespectacled man, who nodded.

(At that moment, all present in the Corinth were trying to ignore the owner Grantaire's shouted, inebriated attempts at flirtation with Miss Enjolras. The attempts were not so much lewd or crass as painfully bad, and Enjolras remained stonily silent.)

"We're reporters," Prouvaire explained enthusiastically. "We're investigating the illicit alcohol trade. Not," he added hastily at a look from Combeferre, "in hopes of incriminating anyone. We shan't mention names or places or-- or anything."

"We're trying to prove the futility of the government's attempts at Prohibition enforcement," Combeferre said, pushing up his glasses. "And, therefore, the nonsensicality of the Eighteenth Amendment itself."

"How do you know Courfeyrac?" Marius asked. Prouvaire blushed suddenly, and Combeferre rolled his eyes.

"He bribes us to give him good notices, on occasion."

"What are your views on Prohibition?" Prouvaire squeaked, less than smoothly changing the subject.

"I'm not certain anymore," Marius confessed.

Another day, Marius found himself seated across from Grantaire at the bar. Grantaire was in his stage of drunkenness just before he began ranting about classical mythology and Catholic wine. It was well known that Grantaire had rekindled his Catholic upbringing just to go to mass and take more than his fair sip of communion wine. But now he was sitting morosely, gazing across the room. It took Marius some time to realize at what.

"You're in love with her, aren't you," he said, startled.

"Who's not a bit in love with our Diana, Venus, and Minerva all in one?" Grantaire slurred. "I believe in nothing, she in everything. Someday she will condescend to spit upon me, and perhaps thereby bestow in me some of that blasted naïveté. She's only a little girl from the country. She's marched, she's fasted, she doesn't know what the world is like; if she did, she wouldn't believe."

"You don't love her?"

"What does a starving man love? Food. A thirsty man idolizes water. A thief loves justice for its morality, a woman loves a man for the rights he's got, a cynic loves the sight of unshakable belief, even as he scoffs at it."

Marius was too frightened to ever approach the icy-eyed goddess of the rear corner.

After some weeks, Courfeyrac set to pestering.

"You have to come see it, the show. People ask after you."

"They don't know who I am," Marius protested, blushing.

"I've told them. Now you have to come. You're living with me, and it's bad form to deny a request from the fellow who can boot you out onto the street if he feels like it."

"If you want me to go--" Marius began, realization dawning. Courfeyrac laughed.

"Don't be ridiculous. Come see the pretty girl I do the Charleston with. She does the shim sham better than anyone I've ever seen. And then we can even see about getting you your own key, so you don't have to sleep on the doormat like last week when Rosalie was over and insisted I lock the door."

Marius, blushing, didn't reply.

In the end, Courfeyrac had his way (Marius was beginning to notice a pattern: Courfeyrac _always_ got his way) and dragged Marius to the Vaudeville theatre above the Corinth one evening in May. Courfeyrac forced Marius to sit right up front, and Marius hated it. It was too loud, too bright, and the people on either side were pressed too closely against him. Then Courfeyrac came on to do his Charleston and suddenly Marius didn't care.

It wasn't Courfeyrac, of course. His roommate was all well and good, and a very good dancer (not that Marius knew about that sort of thing). It was the girl he was dancing with. Small with dark curls cut in a bob and blue eyes, Marius found he couldn't tear his eyes away. At one point, her beaded flapper's skirt flew up over her knees, and Marius at that moment knew he could have committed murder and felt less sinful.

Courfeyrac pretended not to be surprised by Marius's eagerness to return the next evening. And the next. And the next. Nearly a week after the evening Marius had first come, Marius told Courfeyrac to go along home with the pretty blonde flapper he'd met shortly before, and Courfeyrac was more than glad to oblige. Marius remained in the theatre, trying to work up the courage to ask where he might find the pretty dancer. Or, at the least, ask someone her name. He couldn't quite manage it. Fortunately, the pretty girl took care of it first.

When Marius had just worked up then lost the courage to go speak to someone, she strode out, looking straight forward and blushing to the ears. As she passed, Marius immediately turned equally red. She hurried out, pulling her hat far over her head, and it was only after she rushed out the door that Marius realized she'd left her little packet of old-fashioned calling cards behind. Cards with her name and address neatly printed along the middle.

It was Marius's duty, of course, to return them.

It took him only a few minutes to find the house, and nearly an hour to force himself to knock on the door. The girl answered the door, and her small hand tightened on the door frame.

"I… you dropped…" Marius held out the cards, blushing brightly, unable to find his tongue.

"I know," she whispered. "I did it on purpose." Hastily, she added. "I… I saw you, in the… audience, and I… you…"

"I came to see you," he interrupted. She broke into a slow, shy smile.

"I hadn't dared hope…" And he seized her hands. And more naturally than anything in the world, she rose onto her toes and pressed her painted lips to his mouth. His arms slipped into place around her waist and the packet of calling cards fell to the floor.

"Where'd the little curly-haired fellow go, who used to come about so often?" Bossuet asked Courfeyrac one night.

"I've no idea," Courfeyrac replied brightly. "He comes home at two in the morning with this dreamy look. I think he must be drinking somewhere else, and actually drinking, too. He never got that drunk when he came here."

In truth, Marius, after returning the calling cards, found himself returning again and again and again. And the girl, an orphan called Cosette, did not seem to much mind. Only a flapper in dress and dance, she was a shy, demure little thing, well matched to Marius, and embarrassment at the idea of kissing again was quite mutual. For his part, Marius felt alive for the first time in his entire life.

Some weeks after the calling cards, Marius called upon her as she was in the middle of hurriedly trying to dry reddened eyes on an already damp handkerchief. She fell into his arms and tearfully explained that her manager wanted her to try a new venue in California,. Back in the Corinth, Grantaire announced the police had tipped him off to a raid, and before the speakeasy could evacuate, Enjolras had hiked her skirts up to her knees and climbed onto a table.

And everyone noticed. And she began to speak. And everyone listened. And as Cosette wept in Marius's arms, Enjolras spoke of the factories' exploitation of women and children. And as Marius promised he would return the next day with a way to save them both, Enjolras told of the corruption of the Prohibition inspectors and the police of the city. And as Marius returned for the first time in nearly half a year to his grandfather's house, Enjolras described the lives taken by the crime rings fueled by the black market of alcohol. And as Marius shook with despair at his grandfather's refusal to grant him permission to marry, Enjolras shook with passion and conviction and she let her carefully prepared papers fall from her trembling hand, and she bellowed cries for action that set the whole of the Corinth to shouting and cheering.

"Do I support drunkenness, irresponsibility? No! What I say is that the government has not the right to steal our freedoms and harm our fellow men in the process! I say down with Prohibition, down with police corruption! I say we protest, organize the grandest rally this town has ever seen, and I shall need the help of _everyone!_ Tear up every paving stone, take every wine cask, we shall barricade the building, and then see what the police have to say about it! Let's see if they can ignore our wine when it's blocking their way! Let's see if they can fight without their bribers, the mafia men, to tell us to stand down. We will barricade the Corinth! Who will join me!"

A deafening roar rang through the little room, and Courfeyrac caught Enjolras as her shaking legs gave out. Deep down, she was only lady after all.

Marius, desolate, began heading towards Courfeyrac's house just moments after this transpired.

The date was June fifth, 1922.

Marius was met by a small boy in breeches and a cap, a newsboy's sack at his side.

"Mister Marius Pontmercy?" the boy asked. Marius nodded cautiously. "Courfeyrac's sent me. You're wanted at the Corinth, he said." Looked ecstatic, he added. "He said if I fetched you, I might get a gun."

"A gun?" Marius said, startled. The boy nodded.

"I said, I ought to have one, I've been in more fights than they ever have, but they said there will be gentlemen fighting with only the stones in the street, why should a child get a weapon before they do? So Mister Courfeyrac pulled me aside and said Gavroche, won't you do a favor for me, and I'll see if we can't find something for you, as well. So I came."

"What are you _talking_ about?" Marius demanded. "Guns? Fighting? What is going on there?"

"A revolution!" Gavroche crowed with a gap-toothed grin of pure delight.

The drinkers had set to barricading the Corinth with wine casks, tables, chairs, and anything else that could be found. Courfeyrac left a back door leading into the ladies' dressing room of the theatre upstairs unbarred, as he assured everyone the police would never find it. They sent some ladies up to pose as half-dressed flappers anyway, to send the police away with their shrieking. It was only later anyone noticed that Courfeyrac had disappeared at the same time they did. Marius, desolate and bewildered, found himself thrust into the middle of it all. A young fellow dressed in a slightly shabby suit grabbed his arm and began giving him orders, and it took him a moment to realize that it was Enjolras, dressed in trousers, her hair tied in a fat gold braid down her back.

"We must be ready," Enjolras said. "Soon, they'll come. And we will not budge!" More cheering.

Back at home, Cosette delayed packing her things for as long as possible. He _would_ return. He had to.

Marius was startled to find Combeferre and Prouvaire barricaded in along with the drinkers.

"Isn't it thrilling!" Prouvaire said, but his voice wavered. "This is just what Combeferre and I have been fighting for, but with actions, not words."

"I don't like it," Combeferre said. "I detest bloodshed. But I will stay and fight, like every other man. To the death, if it so ends."

To the death. At the words, Prouvaire shivered, but Marius, partly to his own surprise, felt nothing but relief. Well, what else was left to him without Cosette? She could go to California, unburdened by memories of a love that couldn't be. The thought that she could go on without him hurt, but only dully, distantly, for Marius felt, and had since leaving his grandfather's house that afternoon, very numb.

There came a pounding on the door as the sun was beginning to set. There was no surprise, as Bahorel had abandoned his post as doorman to join in the building of the barricade. The patrons were crouched behind it, holding their breaths in anticipation. Pistols had been dug out of closets, and a even a few guns from the first World War graced the ranks of the drinkers.

"For it may come to shots," Enjolras said solemnly. Marius got the chilling feeling that she hoped it would. The shelves of the bars had been emptied of bottles and glasses in the case of flying bullets. As for Grantaire, he had disappeared.

After a moment, the door was kicked in and the head of a group of police officers stormed in, then stopped, looking rather confused.

"What is this?" he demanded.

"This is a rebellion, good sir!" Enjolras cried, and cheers rang up from their side of the barricade.

"Now, now," the police officer said, looking uncomfortable. "This is an illegal speakeasy, and you're all under arrest for attendance. Don't make it worse for yourselves."

"This, sir, is not about one drink in an illegal bar," Enjolras said, poking her head over the top, pale cheeks flushed. "This is about ridiculous laws, unfair governing, and corrupt, incompetent police officers!"

The policeman reddened. "I order you to come out!"

"No!" Prouvaire said, his voice losing all youthfulness and timidity.

It was unknown, later, which side the first shot came from. But before anyone knew what was happening, several more rang out and a policeman was on his knees, and Prouvaire's hands were at his chest as his shirtfront was stained with a rapidly growing red splotch.

And then it all went to hell.

Marius wasn't fully aware of anything going on around him. He knew at some point, he saw Prouvaire's lifeless body laid across a table. At some point, Courfeyrac came down, and at another point, he was shot. As was Combeferre, as was Bahorel, as was Feuilly, as were Joly and Bossuet, as was the little newsboy, Gavroche, who had come to fetch him there in the first place. And at some point, so was he. And he hoped, as he fell, that Cosette would not forget.

And maybe it was because they were scared to shoot at a lady, but as Enjolras raced into the back room of the Corinth as the first of the policemen started to climb over the makeshift barricade, the blood staining her plait copper was not hers.

The police were not long in pursuing her into the back room. Enjolras pressed herself against the back wall.

"I won't let you take me alive, so you may as well shoot me now," she snapped. Two of the officers glanced at each other, then at their leader, who nodded. They raised their guns.

"You organized this, then?"

"Yes."

"What in hell is this bellowing about?" Grantaire said. And it was only then anyone noticed him, slumped in a corner where he had passed out, several bottles at his side. He looked at Enjolras. He looked at the policemen. He looked at their guns. And with a grunt, he rose and pressed himself against the wall as well.

"Well?" he said, looking at her, and he sounded almost gentle.

"I said every wine cask would be used, and that includes you, you worthless inebriate." Grantaire stepped behind Enjolras, and as easily as Marius's had around Cosette's, Grantaire's arms slipped around Enjolras's waist.

"Fire," she said.

Early in the morning of June sixth, 1922, the police cleared out of the Corinth speakeasy, whose floors were splattered and stained with blood.

Midmorning, the police were conducting an investigation that involved staying as far from the corpses as possible. A girl in a black dress and cloche hurried to the scene and was starting for the door when the chief inspector, a gentleman with large grey sideburns, seized her by the arm.

"Miss, what are you doing here?"

"I-- I need to see… inside…"

"No one is allowed inside, miss. This isn't a place for ladies, please, get out of here."

"Sir, I _must_ see! A boy-- he's alive, I know he is. He has to be."

"Miss, none of them survived. If you please, there is no way--"

"No way?" Fixing the inspector with a level blue gaze, Miss Cosette snapped her handbag open.

In the year 1922, Mister Gillenormand opened the door to find is grandson, half dead, supported on one side by a policeman and on the other by a girl too pretty for her own good. The boy was nursed back to health, and that damned modern flapper proposed to the grandfather on his grandson's behalf. But such a pretty little thing she was, with little pink knees peeking through the uneven pleats of her skirt.

There was wine at the wedding, in the year 1922.


End file.
